A-F-F-E-C-T-I-O-N

Affection was one of Theo's spelling words this week and though he spelled it correctly, his sentence showed he was confused by the meaning. Perhaps he thought it meant "infection"?

I looked at his sentence and asked, "Do you know what affection means?"

He said, "I don't think so."

He was sitting in the nook, doing his homework at the kitchen table. I said, "Slide in."

I said,"This is affection."

I put my arm around him, snuggled close, and kissed him all over.

I said, "Do you understand?"

He said, "I am going to say I do not understand what it means so you will keep doing that."

So much like Jonathan! It could have been Jonathan.

Now that he has mastered the meaning (along with the spelling) he has put it to good use. He asks me at night before bed, and in the morning before school, and when something get him down (like losing his second student council race...): "Mommy, can you give me some affection?"

I say, "Spell it!"

And then I give him some loving.

Green Eggs and Ham

Our brilliant school principal always reminds us that for all the hours and methods teachers spend to learn to try to teach children how to read, no one knows exactly how it happens. It happens between ages four and seven, and different children really do learn different ways. But what makes it all finally click? Educators do not know.

It is, I suppose, a kind of miracle.

The craziest part is we usually return to our own childhoods as a check and reference point. But try asking any adult about when they learned to read. Most adults do not remember learning. And a lot of adults do not remember not being able to read. Only that suddenly they could, and the world opened up.

Theo's world has opened up.

Benji is standing on the threshold, wanting it more than Theo ever did, because he knows it is something his brother can do that he cannot. He knows it is so close, but he cannot quite do it yet. Oh, how he wants to.

I am mellower this time around. I know it will come, and I know he will be brilliant. Even though he is so different than Theo in all things, in this I have absolute faith.

Last night we read Green Eggs and Ham. It was the end of a long day at the end of a long weekend. I tried to make him read a little. At least the words he knew. We could read it together. He resisted. He said he didn't want to. He said I said he didn't have to read any more after page four. I pushed a little more. But I was worried I was going to traumatize, so finally I pulled back, and only made him read words like "the" and "a" and "I." His so-called popcorn words, because they "pop" out everywhere. (Even on our walls, embedded in giant pieces of popcorn his teacher has made.)

I put him to bed praying I was not pushing him too hard, and into hating reading.

But a strange thing happened.

This morning he crawled into my bed at 6:55 fully dressed, clutching Green Eggs and Ham. I was not even awake. He got into position and started to read. He read through page three, then four. He stumbled sometimes, on words like "would" or "could," and sometimes he asked for help.

But he read that book right through. He said his throat was so dry he could not go on. I was worried he was going to get a brain aneurism from effort. But he persevered, right through until the end.

I was astonished.

Where had that come from? I felt his synapses bending into shape as he read, making connections. I was witnessing the miracle of reading.

His grin was so wide it could have wrapped around his head. Oh, was he proud. He jumped out of bed, and ran to tell Theo (still sleeping.) He said he wanted to call Jonathan (away.) He ran around with the book.

I had seen it come together.

Will it be there this afternoon? This evening? Tomorrow? I don't know for sure.

But he did it. It is in there, and he knows it and I know it.

He read. He really read. And I was there in the moment it all really really came together for the first time.

It is a wonder.

I am awed.

By him. By our brains. By how this happens.

Barnsdall Lives!!!

After a year of up and down, budget cuts and not, endless meetings and rallies and letters and begging and crying and weeping and nashing of teeth, the good news is, the Barnsdall Art Center lives. Classes are offered this winter session, starting January 22.

If you have not partaken, these classes are one of the L.A.'s great treasures. Classes are held in East Hollywood at the Barnsdall Arts Center, willed to the city by Aline Barnsdall, independent woman, thinker and lifelong supporter of the arts. Her Frank Lloyd Wright Hollyhock house is right next door for inspiration.

Classes are affordable, come in manageable 6-week chunks, and are taught by truly top of the line, working artists.

Today was registration day for kids classes. I arrived exactly when the flyers said to, at 8:45, and I was last in line. The hard core Korean mamas had been there since 5 am, camping out with fuzzy blankets, Ugg boots and folding chairs. I heard in the past the line has gone up and around the block. But with the center under seige for the last year, the public has grown confused. Lots of people don't even know classes are underway again.

So I am putting the word out. Sign up. For the foreseeable future Barnsdall and all its amazing teachers are here to teach us about what they love. Art will make you happy. I promise.

Try it.